The Makeshift Marriage (9 page)

“I’ve sent Henderson for the doctor.”

“Doctor?” The puzzled look returned.

“You are badly wounded.”

Memory seemed to return then. “The duel
—”

“The baron broke the rules. Do you remember?”

“A little.”

“You wounded him,” she said, hoping to encourage him just a little. His voice was so faint and shaky that she could barely understand him. Her hands trembled as she poured him some water and held the dish to his dry lips. He drank only a small amount, and even that effort seemed too much for him. His dull eyes closed again and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Almost in tears, she replaced the dish on the table. At that moment Henderson returned with the doctor, and they were accompanied by the portly, black-clad, and bewigged figure of a chaplain.

The chaplain bowed. “The Reverend Xavier Smythe,” he said. “Attached to the British consulate here in Venice. Your servant, ma’am.”

“Sir.” Laura rose slowly to her feet. “But why…?”

The doctor put down his bag. “I took the necessary precaution,
Fraulein,
of sending for the chaplain as I think it only right that Sir Nicholas should have the comfort of a priest at this time.”

It seemed so very final. “But Sir Nicholas spoke to me,” she protested. “He spoke to me and drank some water!”

“Alas,
Fraulein,
that is often the case, a rally before the end. I have seen it too often to take false hope. I knew when the valet came to me that your hopes had been raised, but I cannot encourage you at all.”

The chaplain agreed. “I fear the doctor speaks the unfortunate truth, Miss
—?”

“Milbanke.”

“Miss Milbanke. From what I hear of today’s regrettable incident, and from what I now see of poor Sir Nicholas’s condition, I think that all we can do now is pray for his soul.”

“No!” she cried. “No! He’s isn’t dead!” Praying would be to tempt Providence…or to give up a race before it was fully run.

The chaplain’s gray-wigged head nodded gravely. “I understand how you feel, dear lady, but truly there is nothing more to be done. He is in the gentle hands of the Almighty now.”

“I will not accept that statement until his heart no longer beats, sir. Dr. Meyer may be the finest practitioner of his skills in the whole world, but even he cannot know for certain what will happen. I will not give up yet, I swear that I will not.”

Nicholas’s faint voice broke into the ensuing silence. “Why are you here, Chaplain?”

Laura turned sharply, reaching out instinctively to take his hand again. He was looking at the Reverend Smythe. “I don’t need you, my friend,” he murmured.

The bulky chaplain leaned over him. “I fear that you do, Sir Nicholas.”

“Not yet. Not yet.”

“I admire your brave words, Sir Nicholas, but I think you know in your heart that they are indeed just words.”

The hollow eyes moved to Laura’s anxious face. “Do I need him, Laura?”

She couldn’t speak. Just when she needed her own strength most, it deserted her. She should deny it now, she should give him encouragement, but her resolve evaporated and she could only bow her head to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes when she wanted them least.

“My poor Laura,” he whispered, “You came to Venice to be happy and instead I have made you weep. You must forgive me for everything.”

“
I
forgive
you!”
She was almost overcome with emotion. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said at last. “Nothing at all. Maybe you should be forgiving me.”

He smiled a little. “You need not be a church mouse, Laura, there need not be any Lady Mountfort.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at the waiting chaplain. “Your visit shall not be wasted,” he said, pausing a while because the effort of speaking exhausted him.

The Reverend Smythe leaned closer. “How may I serve you, sir?”

“By making Laura my wife.”

Laura stared at Nicholas, her eyes wide as she was taken completely unawares. “You can’t,” she breathed. “You can’t possibly do that!”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because of Miss Townsend. You love her, not me.”

“Only a miracle can make her my wife now. Look at me, Laura. I would die happier knowing that I had helped you. As my widow you will be amply provided for and you would not have to go to Lady Mountfort. Please, Laura.”

She turned to search the others’ faces. Henderson was weeping openly and the doctor looked compassionately at Nicholas. The chaplain’s eyes were sadly downcast, but there was no shocked condemnation on his face. Nicholas spoke again. “Do this for me, Laura.”

Slowly she nodded her consent. “I will marry you,” she said softly.
For I love you, I love you with all my heart
…
.

Dr. Meyer and Major Bergmann were witnesses to the brief ceremony that took place a little later when a special license had been procured from the British consulate. The passage outside the room was thronged with people; it seemed that everyone in the Hotel Contarini had come to see the strange wedding.

She could hardly say the words, speaking haltingly and clutching the little posy of pink and white wild cyclamen Major Bergmann had managed to find somewhere for her. The flowers were the only bridal token she carried. Nicholas’s signet ring felt ice cold as it was slipped on to her finger.

The Reverend Smythe closed the prayerbook and Laura bent to kiss Nicholas on the lips. The flowers were bruised against the coverlet and their delicate perfume was released into the still air. “I love you, Nicholas,” she whispered, unable to bear not confessing her feelings to him now, but when she looked she saw that he had slipped into unconsciousness. He had not heard her. She turned sharply to Dr. Meyer and he shook his head.

“Maybe he will awaken again, Lady Grenville, but I cannot offer you any hope.”

The flowers slipped from her fingers. She felt drained of all strength, all resistance. She could hear some of the maids in the passageway whispering prayers, and tears blinded her as she went to the balcony where the air was cooler. Nicholas’s room overlooked a small canal at the side of the hotel and she looked down to see one of the distinctive Venetian, red-draped boat-hearses gliding silently toward the steps at the hotel’s other entrance. A coffin covered by a red pall was carefully taken into the hotel
—Nicholas’s coffin…. A shudder ran through her, she would
not
accept the inevitable, she would
not!

Turning back into the room, she looked at Major Bergmann. “Tell them to send the coffin away.”

“But
—”

“I will not have the coffin here while he lives! I demand that it be removed!” She was trembling defiantly.

The major inclined his head and left the room.

She did not know when at last she was alone with Nicholas. She was lost in her thoughts and silent prayers. The chaplain had placed the certificate of marriage on the table next to Augustine Townsend’s portrait, and the document shone very white against the black lacquerwork. Laura stared at the piece of paper that made her Nicholas Grenville’s wife. She loved him so very much
—and he would never perhaps know that. He had married her because he pitied her, not for any other reason—his heart was given to Augustine…. An incongruous smile touched Laura’s pale lips. The fortune ticket had been partly right, for she had a rich, albeit encumbered, and titled husband. But there was no great future happiness ahead for Laura, Lady Grenville of King’s Cliff.

The brilliant sunshine that streamed into the room as Henderson drew back the curtains the next morning roused Laura from the exhausted sleep that had at last overtaken her before dawn. She was curled up on the sofa, still wearing her sprigged muslin gown. She had unpinned her hair and brushed it before falling asleep, and now it tumbled down over her shoulders as she sat swiftly up, her first thought of Nicholas.

“He’s the same, ma’am,” said the valet, seeing the sharp anxiety leap into her eyes.

Relief flooded through her as she got up and went to the bed. Nicholas awoke as her hand brushed his. “Laura?” His voice was a faint whisper and his eyes were lackluster. But he was alive, he was still with her…
.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Bang up to the mark.”

She smiled at the dry humor he still seemed capable of in spite of his condition. “You must drink something.”

“Cognac?”

“Water.”

“Damned washy stuff.”

Her hands were trembling as she poured some water from the jug by the bedside. Henderson supported Nicholas’s head as she held the glass to his lips. He succeeded in drinking most of it and Henderson laid him gently back.

Laura glanced at the valet. “Go and find Dr. Meyer.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She knew that the valet still resented her part in all this, but the hostility was not as keen this morning.

She looked down at Nicholas again. “Does your head ache?”

“Abominably.”

“Maybe the doctor can give you something to help.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “What a very dull wedding night you’ve had,” he murmured. “My apologies.”

“There is time enough.”

He smiled at the brave words, but said nothing more, for at that moment Henderson returned with the doctor. The Austrian made no secret of his amazement that Nicholas had survived the night. He put his leather bag down and looked at his patient. “You should be a corpse, Sir Nicholas, by all the laws I know of.”

“Austrian laws?”

“Human laws,” said the doctor firmly, bending to look at the dressings. “Your head wound looks well enough, but no doubt it gives you much pain.”

“Yes.”

“I will give you laudanum. As to your arm
—it should have been amputated. I tried my best to persuade….” The doctor glanced at Laura.

Nicholas smiled at her. “You refused?”

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“There is time yet,” said the doctor, still determined to have his way, if possible.

“No, Doctor.”

“But, Sir Nicholas
—”

“No.”

“Very well, I cannot of course impose my wishes upon you. But this one thing I will ask, and that is that if, God willing, you survive another week, then you will permit me to operate to remove the ball which lodges deep in the wound.”

“If I survive another week,” replied Nicholas quietly, “then I will not remain in Venice.”

Laura stared down at him and the doctor was aghast. “You cannot think of traveling, Sir Nicholas! Such a course would be tantamount to lunacy!”

“Then consider me mad.”

“You must listen to me, Sir Nicholas. You are lucky to be alive, but only a cat has nine chances. If you undertake to travel in your condition, I cannot give you any hope of surviving.”

“You gave me no hope of being here now.”

The doctor gave a grim smile. “I was wrong about that, but I am not wrong about this.”

Nicholas glanced at Laura. “Promise me you will do as I wish.”

“But Nicholas
—”

“Your word, Laura. As my wife.”

“And if I give my word, will it be as your widow that I reach England?”

“Your word,” he insisted, moving his hand toward hers.

She took his cold fingers. “I promise,” she whispered.

“Lady Grenville!” protested the doctor. “You cannot know what you are doing!”

“My husband wishes to go home, Dr. Meyer, and I will do all I can to help him.”

The doctor sighed heavily. “I should wash my hands of everything, for all my advice goes unheeded.”

“Dr. Meyer,” she said, “please believe me when I say that we are both very grateful for all you have done.”

He smiled. “The English are quite mad. I have always suspected it, now I know it for certain. As I said, I cannot impose my wishes upon you, and as a doctor I feel bound to do what I can. If Sir Nicholas is set upon this crazy return to England, I will, of course, do what I can to make the journey as comfortable as possible for him.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“And now I will leave some laudanum for the pain. I will first change these dressings, however.” He began to unwind the bandage on Nicholas’s head.

Nicholas blanched at the sharp, raw pain, but he did not cry out.

“Shout if you wish, sir, for I realize that the pain is great.”

“It is nothing I cannot endure.”

“You fought at Waterloo, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then in my opinion it is small wonder Bonaparte was crushed, for if all Englishmen are as stubborn as you are, Sir Nicholas, then the French did not stand a chance!”

* * *

Over two weeks later Laura’s baggage stood waiting by her bedchamber door to be taken down to the waiting boat which would shortly transport her and Nicholas to the waiting British barquentine. The journey was the height of folly, but nothing would move Nicholas from his decision. She had managed to delay him another week, but that was all, and she had insisted on making the journey by sea, and not overland in stagecoaches that would jolt over every rut on appalling roads. But the final morning had arrived, and in a few moments they would leave the Hotel Contarini for the last time.

She took two of the cyclamen which had been her wedding bouquet. The flowers had not yet faded entirely for she had rescued them and put them with the anemones in a glass of water. Now she put samples of the flowers between the sheets of her guidebook, pressing the book tightly together and binding it close with a green ribbon. She put the book into her reticule and drew the strings firmly. There, she was ready to go.

She looked at her reflection in the cheval glass. Her traveling pelisse of pale lilac wool with its three little capes usually became her very well, but now it seemed only to emphasize the paleness of her face and the shadows beneath her tired eyes. It was loose on her now, too, for she had lost weight over the past weeks. Rouge would color her cheeks, but nothing could disguise the deep anxiety and tension that pervaded her so constantly.